like four pillars
by psychedaleka
Summary: Godric Gryffindor is nine and there's blood on his hands and his heart pounding in his ears. The man lies in front of him: dead. Before they were the founders of Hogwarts, they were four witches and wizards. This is their story. A series of loosely connected one-shots.
1. four wizards of renown

Godric Gryffindor is nine and there's blood on his hands and his heart pounding in his ears. The man lies in front of him: dead. He should leave. He should leave before the guards come and catch him, before the streets are so swarmed with panicked people that he can't move.

_Run, you idiot_, he hears his uncle say, in his memories.

He runs.

* * *

Godric is eleven and he's facing his first battlefield— _steel on steel; copper; a glare of sunlight; a scream a name an oath of vengeance—_ and he looks forward and he looks back and he thinks: I do not want this.

Some nights he dreams of dead eyes.

And he thinks: I am stronger than my fear.

And he steps forward.

* * *

Godric is twelve and there's a kid (not a kid; he could be just as old as you are) on the streets with grey eyes like a storm and nimble fingers and—

Almost. Godric grabs the kid's wrist with one hand and pins him to the nearest wall with the other.

"Drop it," Godric says. He might be twelve but he's taller than the kid—broader, too.

The kid hesitates, then meets his eyes. Godric doesn't have time to think before— he snaps his Occlumency shields up (stupid, stupid, he shouldn't have dropped them in the first place) and a thought: _the kid's a wizard_— a split second of distraction and the kid's slipped from his grasp.

Godric lets him go.

There's nothing important in his wallet any—

Wait. No. The map. Godric curses—mildly, because his uncle would wash his mouth out with soap if he ever heard—and chases after the kid.

The kid's name is Sal and he's an orphan on the streets. That's nothing unique. There are hundreds of orphans in London alone, not to speak of the towns and villages and cities across Britain.

"Why'd you want it?" he asks, in a rough accent.

"That's none of your business," Godric says. "Just hand it over."

"I don't have it," Sal says.

"Look," Godric says, impatience flaring, "what the hell do you want?"

"I want," Sal says, "first, to know how the hell you can do that—" and he waves his hand around in a mimicry of Godric's wand movement— "and I want you to teach me."

"I can't teach you!" Godric exclaims. "It's not as though I know anything beyond the basics."

"And I know absolutely nothing," Sal says. "So. Deal or no deal?"

Maybe, Godric thinks desolately, he can ditch him once he gets the map back.

"Fine," Godric says.

"Alright," Sal says. "You start."

"No," Godric says. "I'm not doing anything until I get the map back."

"What," Sal snorts, "so you can just take it and run away? What do you think I am, stupid?"

"Fine," Godric sighs.

He spends the next month with Sal, teaching him the basics of magic. Every time he tries to bring up the map, he gets redirected, distracted, or otherwise occupied. And the worst part is, he doesn't notice the fact that Sal has turned his attention away from the map until the next time he thinks about it.

He's had enough.

"The map," Godric says, at breakfast.

"Don't you think it's too early for that?" Sal asks. There's a small fire between them, stale bread toasting on a stick.

"No," he says. He's resolved, this time, to actually get the map back. He's delayed for long enough.

He doesn't expect Sal to actually give it back to him.

"There," Sal says. "You happy?"

The issue is. Of course he _should_ be happy but. The map is written in code. And it's not of anywhere that he recognizes.

He flips it the other way.

"No," Sal says, exasperated, "it's the other way."

"It's in code," Godric says.

"I hadn't realized," Sal says, dryly sarcastic.

"I can't read it."

"And that's my problem how?"

"Well," Godric says, "I might've been able to spend the last month deciphering the code if you hadn't distracted me."

"It's your fault for being distracted."

Godric glances up, sharply, only to notice the glint in Sal's eyes.

"I hate you," he says instead.

"Good luck deciphering it," Sal says instead—that bastard. He knows full well that Godric can't decipher codes to save his life.

But Godric just grits his teeth and resolves not to ask for help.

His resolve lasts an impressive week.

"Alright, then," Godric says, "if you're such a genius, why don't you decipher it for me?"

"It's the London underground," Sal says simply, without even glancing at the map.

"The what?"

"The criminal world," Sal says. "The cipher's standard for a couple gangs here."

"Well, that's certainly useful," Godric huffs.

"You know, if you would tell me what you're doing with that map, maybe I'd be able to help you," Sal says, amused.

"What, out of the goodness of your heart?" Godric snorts. "What do you want?"

Sal turns to face the street, away from Godric.

A few seconds, then flatly, Sal tells him, "I want to get out of here."

"Of London?"

"No," Sal says. "Out of this life on the streets. Out of this life of—struggling to survive."

"Help me with this," Godric says, "and I will do my very best."

It's a reconnaissance mission that Godric's has sent him on. Why his uncle would do such a thing, well, Godric will never know, but he knows Sal suspects deliberate sabotage.

"You'd never succeed at this without me," Sal says.

Godric grudgingly admits that it's true. He has no skill at being subtle.

In the end, it's Sal who takes over the mission, talks them both into and out of trouble—Godric has to admit, that sarcasm will get Sal killed one day (and he ignores how badly he doesn't want that to happen) but it's hilarious (when it doesn't go over his head)—and ultimately, it is Sal who tells him: there is my end of the deal, done.

They've known each other for half a year now, but it feels like a lifetime.

Godric doesn't want to part ways.

"Come with me," he blurts.

"I can't," Sal says. "Our paths don't lead to the same place."

Godric fulfills his end of the deal, of course—he doesn't break his promises—but he does it slowly, as though maybe Sal will change his mind. He doesn't.

So Godric leaves with the fear that he will never see Sal again, but also the knowledge, deep in his heart, that Sal is wrong: their paths will converge again.

He doesn't see him for another four years.

* * *

Godric is fifteen and he's killed more than most adults have.

He looks at his family—all he's ever known, his uncle and his aunt and the ghosts of his dead parents lingering on in everything he does—and he sees the destruction they wreak, the fires and broken homes that they leave behind.

He can't keep living like this, dead eyes and _blood is thicker than water_. He can't leave this behind: the thrill of the fight, never in the same place for too long, a campfire.

His uncle sends him to a castle (his first solo mission, without backup in sight and he should be _happy_ that they trust him like this but he's _not_) on the behest of some nobleman. It's an inheritance issue, as it usually is. The lord is dead, there's no heirs, but—oh. This time: a rivalry between a bastard son (newly found) and the widow.

Godric's been sent to kill the bastard. This, at least, should be easy.

It's not.

He knows the bastard.

It's Sal. And he knows for certain that Sal isn't the bastard son of any lord.

He's welcomed into the castle as an old friend—_he saved my life, once_, Sal says—and it's a week before he manages to catch Sal alone.

"Are you here to kill me?" Sal asks in an elegant drawl that sounds so out of place, coming out of his mouth. "Let me guess. The brother threw a fit."

Godric doesn't want to admit that.

"Thought so," Sal wrinkles his nose and Godric's brought back to the first time they met.

Sal's grown up, since: shot up like a beanpole—and he's just as skinny. He's filled out slightly, no longer so gaunt and well. He's no longer a kid. Godric's still taller than him, though, and he holds that as a victory.

"It's not your family," he says. "Not your problem."

A pause.

"I've made this my home," Sal says, "over the past four years. I've made this my problem."

"Maybe," Godric says, "but the brother wants you _dead_. And whether or not you convince me, you can't convince him."

"Well then," Sal says, spreading his arms wide, "kill me."

"No!" The denial bursts from Godric's lips before he can stop it.

For a second, Sal looks so, so _lost_. But it doesn't last. Indifference slams back over Sal's face like a goddamn gate. And Godric is shut outside.

"What will you do instead, then?" Salazar asks, that cool edge back in his voice. "Even a fool would know that you can't lie to save your life."

Salazar pins him down with a stare. Godric forces himself to meet Salazar's eyes though it's the last thing he wants to do. He prepares himself for a flurry of images to bombard him, for Salazar to root through his mind like a goddamn library but it never comes. Godric doesn't bother with Occlumency shields. He would never hide from Salazar, anyways.

"I don't know," Godric says.

"He'll ask for proof, you know," Salazar says, as though they're not speaking of his death. "My head, probably."

Godric's mouth goes dry.

"I'm not going to kill you," he manages. "I don't know what you're doing—this—but you're not going to encourage me to kill you."

"One day," Salazar says, turning away, "you'll want to kill me without being encouraged."

Godric doesn't know what to say to that.

"I won't kill you," he repeats instead.

A week passes. His uncle must be getting suspicious. Although, Godric muses, he could argue that the last time he was able to stealthily kill someone was when he was nine. He doesn't talk to Sal again—doesn't see him except for the occasional glance in the hallways.

An owl arrives for him, the seventh day. It's a deadline: three days.

The first, he spends in a haze. He won't—can't—kill Sal, not his first friend. And yet—he cannot betray his family, the people who raised him. The second day he talks to Sal—no, it's Salazar now. Godric finds Salazar prefers the longer form of his name.

"I need to talk to you," Godric says.

"So do a hundred other people," Salazar replies, dismissively.

"Now," Godric says—no, demands.

"Can't it wait?" Salazar asks, not even looking up from his report.

"Absolutely not."

A pause.

"In case you haven't realized," Salazar says, "we _are_ talking."

"Privately."

Salazar looks up, narrows his eyes.

"About—" Godric gestures at nothing in particular with his hands but he knows that Salazar understands what he means.

Salazar nods, dismisses everyone else with a flick of his hand.

Godric tells Salazar everything.

"Then you'll have to kill me," Salazar says.

Godric leaves the conversation frustrated and no closer to solving his dilemma.

Day three. He's outside, running laps around the castle.

_I wish,_ he thinks, _I could just run away, far away where no one can ever find me, far enough that I can make a new name for myself—a new future._

It halts him in his tracks. What's stopping him?

He makes his decision.

"Sal," Godric says, slamming the doors open, "we're leaving."

"If it's some new plant or animal you want me to see," Salazar says, "I'm not—"

"No," Godric says. "We're leaving. For good."

A flash of something in Salazar's eyes.

"Pack up," Godric says. "We need to get out of here before the brother's men arrive."

He doesn't expect Salazar to do as he says.

They're out of the city walls by mid afternoon. It's not a good head start. Not at all. They don't stop that night. Or the next. They only stop when Godric notices Salazar stumbling.

"Go to sleep," Godric says. "I'll keep watch."

Salazar doesn't fall asleep, not immediately.

"I'll bring you nothing but problems," Salazar says.

"I know," Godric says. "But you're _my_ problem now."

"They'll know you betrayed them," Salazar says.

"Yes."

"Do you regret it?"

"No."

"You don't regret leaving behind everything you've ever known?"

"No," Godric says, again, and in the depths of his mind, his uncle says _run; remember who your family is_. "Everyone leaves home eventually."

The bonds to his family that gave him stability for so long only hold him back now. He might've done what was expected of him. But he would never be able to live with himself if he did.

"But I'll miss them," Godric adds, "even if we weren't ever really—"

Somehow, Godric can't bring himself to finish that thought.

"You look like you're going to collapse any second," he says, instead.

Sal looks up at him, eyes hazy and half asleep but so so _alive_.

"I'd never thought you—anyone, really—would have chosen me," he admits, a rougher accent slipping into his vowels. "I would never be able to do something as brave as that."

Godric opens his mouth to respond but Salazar's already asleep.

* * *

Godric is seventeen when he meets Helga. He and Salazar have been travelling on their own for two years, now, and oh the trouble they get into. They've had more near brushes with death than Sal would like and just the right amount for Godric to feel _alive_. They're toppled mad kings (alright, that was Salazar but Godric was there too!), fought zombie hordes (Godric), and laughed in the face of death (both of them; they're both insane) but Salazar itches for somewhere stable to learn and well, whatever he wants, Godric can't deny him.

So they settle in a small village on the edge of nowhere and Sal pulls out all the books he's collected (stolen) and never had the chance to read. Godric farms, helps out with the townspeople, takes all sorts of odd jobs here and there. And everything's domestic bliss. Until it's not.

"How was town?" Sal asks, once Godric comes back to their house, like a concerned housewife.

Godric hesitates.

"Our neighbor's daughter got sick today," he admits. "And he passed away last night."

Sal's jaw tightens. He looks away.

"We have," he says, "all this magic and for what?"

Sal's right. They're a formidable fighting force, on the battlefields but what's the fucking point if all they can do is kill people?

"Do you know," Sal says, "what the cause of the illness is?"

Godric shakes his head. Sal curses; Godric understands: he could make any potion perfectly, that would cure it if he knew what it was.

"It's no use worrying," Godric says and he might be able to convince Sal but not himself. "Go to bed."

Salazar puts his book away, extinguishes the candle. They're sharing a bed—have been, for years now—but there's still that centimeter of space between them that Godric longs to bridge. That he knows he will never bridge.

Then. Then. The next day, a healer and his family comes into town. Godric and Sal are at the marketplace when they arrive. It's a small troupe: a man, a woman, and their daughter. It takes Sal approximately three seconds to figure out that they're wizards and maybe another thirty to figure out what they're here for: it's a magical plague that sweeps across half the land. It doesn't answer the question of why they're here, in the middle of nowhere. They're from Norway. The daughter's two years older than Godric.

They start healing people as soon as they arrive. The death rate drops, for a week. Then; it's as though all their work has been ineffective. The plague comes back, twice as strong.

Godric manages to find the daughter, the second week.

"Good morning," he says.

The woman—she's nineteen, not a girl; she's older than him, for fuck's sake—barely looks up from where she's boiling bandages.

"I want to thank you," he says, "and your family. For helping, I mean."

She freezes.

"You're welcome," she says.

A pause.

"I'm Helga," she says.

"Godric."

She smiles at him, brightly.

"You probably don't want to stay long," she says. "What with the plague and all."

"Right," Godric says sheepishly. "I'll be seeing you around."

_ashes on his tongue and there's a village burning, next to him. there's a corpse at his feet but he doesn't look down; crows; a bitter wind_

_his uncle says: we are family and family is forever_

_his uncle says: you should not have left_

_and beneath him the corpse stirs_

_looks at him with sal's eyes_

_looks at him with dead eyes_

_you killed me he says._

Godric wakes and Salazar is still there, sleeping next to him. He has nightmares of his own; Godric does not disturb him. Instead, he goes for a walk.

He doesn't expect to run into Helga.

"Good morning," she says, sitting on top of a barrel.

"Good morning," Godric replies with a bow.

"Bad dreams?" she asks.

Godric nods.

"Come sit next to me," Helga says, so Godric does.

They don't say anything to each other until the sun rises but it's a comfortable silence.

Godric finds out, two hours later, that Sal's invited her to dinner. They make idle chatter for the first half of the meal.

"I know what you are," Sal says, and Godric nearly jumps. They hadn't discussed this!

"Of course you do," Helga says, laughing. "I'm a healer."

"No," Salazar says, watching her intently. "I mean: a witch."

She freezes.

"Sal!" Godric says. To Helga, he says, "he means no harm. We're also—"

Sal slams his hand over Godric's mouth but Godric doesn't let that stop him.

"We're wizards," he blurts.

Helga slumps down in her chair.

"I thought you were going to kill me," she says.

Godric glares at Sal.

"You can't go terrifying people like that," he says.

Sal shrugs.

"I had to be sure," Sal says, as though he wasn't already sure.

"I want to know about magical society," he says to Helga.

_They're had plenty of contact with magical society,_ Godric thinks, puzzled. _What more could Sal want_?

"You don't—" Helga starts.

"No."

"I mean, most muggle families, they—"

"I never knew my parents."

"And—" Helga says, turning to Godric.

"We were, I mean, magical," he says, "but never really a part of magical society."

So Helga tells them. About Greece and Rome and centuries of lost knowledge. About old families going extinct and witch burnings. And Godric's never prized knowledge above all else, not like Sal has but even he feels the loss.

The plague kills a quarter of the town. And when it's over and everyone's hurting, their family buried in a cemetery that's so much larger than it has the right to be, the village turns on Helga's family. It's nothing they could've seen coming. A child, five, goes home with stories of how Helga's father had made sparkles and butterflies from nowhere. So they take out the pitchforks and torches, storm the house where Helga lives in the middle of the night.

They drag the family out and Godric would rush in, sword drawn, but there are children in that crowd, ten and eleven, kids who are innocent in a way that Godric will never be.

Helga looks onward, defiant, fire burning in her eyes.

"Witch," someone screams. Another throws a stone at Helga, but it misses. Godric won't just watch anymore.

"Wait," he says, wishing he could have Sal's silver tongue. "How can you be so sure she's a witch?"

That calms the crowd, just a bit. But Godric's mouth goes dry and he doesn't know what to say next.

"The words of a little girl?" Sal's voice sound behind him. "Sick with a plague, feverish: who knows what she might have dreamed?"

A pause.

"This family, they risk their lives to save yours," Sal continues. "And this is how you repay them?"

Murmuring, now, breaks out among the crowd. And Godric lets himself hope, for a moment. Until Helga's father chokes, a sword skewering him. Helga's mother screams.

Godric doesn't think before acting: he barrels through the crowd, uncaring of who he knocks into. He gets there in time to grab Helga, but not for Helga's mother. There's a dagger through her neck and blood down her shirt and Godric reaches for Helga, grabs her by the arm and pulls her towards the edge of town. He half expects her to stumble but she doesn't, matching his stride. Godric doesn't look back for Sal; he can take care of himself.

They run deep into the woods. Godric would keep going, would try to outrun the villagers, but Helga tugs him to one side. There's a tangle of exposed tree roots, and they tuck themselves in the shadows. Helga casts a quick disillusionment charm.

"We'll have to leave eventually, you know," Godric says.

"Yes," Helga says, but she's pale and shaking.

Shit, Godric thinks. She's just watched her parents die in front of her.

"Do you," he says, "want a hug?"

She nods, wordlessly, and he hugs her. They stay there, hidden in the tangle of tree roots until the sun rises, until the last sounds of the villagers heading back can be heard. But they don't come out until Godric hears Sal calling his name.

"Thank God," Sal says, once he sees the two of them emerge. "I thought you had run off somewhere."

"No," Godric says. "We hid."

"Sounds like one of you had a brain," Sal continues. To Helga, he says, "how are you feeling?"

"As well as I could be," Helga says, eyes still red from crying, but her voice doesn't shake.

"Do you have," Godric says, "other family that you could go to?"

Helga shakes her head.

"No," she says. "And besides, I have a duty."

What she means doesn't sink in.

"To what?"

"To the people," she says. "I'm a healer. I swore an oath to heal those that I can wherever I can."

"Come with us, then," Godric says. "We travel around. It'll be nice to have some company."

He doesn't say: you shouldn't be alone, not after.

She hesitates.

"Alright," she says.

Sal casts him a glance. Godric can almost hear his words: _what the hell are you thinking, inviting a stranger along?_ But Godric doesn't care.

They travel.

It's not even a month later when they meet Rowena.

They're in a seedy bar, all dim lighting and dirty wood. Godric hates this—the walls, the suffocating smoke, the gazes of the people there like carrion birds waiting for a hint of weakness. Godric hates how this reminds him of his own family. Next to him, Salazar shifts in his seat, swirling the last bit of mead in his cup. He must be as uncomfortable as Godric himself.

But the alcohol flows freely and so do the tongues, so really, this is the best place to be if he wants information (outside of the county sheriff's office, that is).

"Did you hear?" says one of the men in the back. "The lord's daughter's getting married."

That's news to Godric—he didn't even know there was a lord in these areas.

"It's some big affair," the man continues. "The King of England's coming, himself."

"The King of England?" another man scoffs. "What, isn't he fourteen?"

The table erupts in laughter.

There are no noble families in this area, or, at the very least, no noble families so well favoured by the King. Godric knows this. So that means—

They must be magical.

Next to him, Salazar shifts slightly, sipping at his drink.

Godric tunes back to the group, but they've gone off topic, talking about marriage and children and their farms.

The afternoon yields no other news, and by the time they stumble back to the inn, Godric's feeling a warm buzz in his head and Salazar is stumbling. Godric has to half drag Salazar into their room.

It's funny, he thinks, how Salazar has a reputation for being able to hold his liquor, and yet, gets drunk so easily. Godric drags Salazar into bed, and the wood creaks underneath their weight. Salazar flops, bonelessly—gracelessly, and what a shock, to see Salazar like that—onto Godric.

"Sal get off," Godric says, not expecting an answer. He doesn't get one.

In the morning, Salazar's missing and really Godric shouldn't be surprised but he can't stop the hurt from welling up. He goes outside, finds Helga's made friends with the innkeeper, her wife, and the neighbors. Godric has nothing better to do, so he joins them as they talk.

Salazar comes back around noon, with lunch and news.

"The resident lord is organizing a tournament," he says to Godric and Helga, in the safety of their room. "Whoever wins gets his daughter's hand."

A pause.

"You'd want to compete," Salazar says to Godric. "A lordship, at least half a million Galleons, and two hundred hectares of land. You could be set up for life."

"What, you aren't going to mention the wife?" Godric says, but it's half hearted. He doesn't want to get married, not to someone he doesn't know, not to someone he'd win like a trophy.

And besides. He can't imagine leaving his life of adventure.

(he can't imagine leaving Salazar)

"We should stay for the tournament," Godric says, look at Salazar for backup.

"There'll be people from all over," Salazar says. "Maybe we'll get some news."

It's agreed upon, then.

The tournament dawns with all of the expected fanfare and more. Free food, drunk people yelling in the streets, the distant clang of swords, and it seems as though everyone has left their houses in their brightest clothes, chattering. The King doesn't show up, though Godric had been doubtful that he would.

Godric dresses up in his nice clothes, the ones that aren't torn and singed at the edges from his misadventures, and bows courteously—exaggeratedly—to Helga, who hasn't bothered to change.

"Shall we?" he asks, as Helga takes his hand.

Salazar stays in their room and reads, shaking his head at their antics.

Godric and Helga go and watch the opening joust, yelling and screaming and vaguely Godric thinks that maybe he should've dragged Salazar along, much as he'd hate it. The competition is quite fierce, Godric realizes, with nearly two dozen trained knights—armour and squires and all—and even more people without that.

"Who do you think will win?" Helga asks Godric, during a lull, when they're sitting on the steps outside a tavern, eating their lunch.

"What's his name—the Norman looks pretty well prepared," Godric says, "though from the looks of him I'd say he's here for the political alliance."

"He doesn't look committed," Helga says. "Probably just here because he needs to be."

Godric considers that for a moment.

"Good point," he says.

A pause.

"That one looks prepared," he says. It's one of the anonymous knights, masked, faceless. "The one with the brownish—bronze—kerchief. That one."

"Well if you're certain," Helga says, then slips off.

It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

"Wait, Helga!" he says, but she's already slipped off.

When she returns, it's with less money and a betting slip.

"Who's the popular bet?" Godric asks.

"The Norman."

The tournament continues with no sign of the daughter. The Norman is quickly eliminated—Helga was right. The next popular bet—a young lord, English—advances to the final and to the surprise of everyone—except Godric and Helga—the bronze knight also makes it.

The last day, Godric finally manages to drag Salazar outside.

The joust ends very quickly when the English lord's foot catches on his stirrup and he overbalances just before his opponent's lance hits his chest. Stunned silence, for a moment. Then, the herald announces the bronze knight's victory.

Helga cheers, loudly, before slipping off to collect her prize money.

"The knight used magic," Salazar says. "There's no way the stirrup could have wrapped like that without magic."

The lord—Ravenclaw—descends from his seat.

"Our winner!" he announces. "Now if you please, remove your helmet."

The knight does so, and Lord Ravenclaw goes pale.

"Hello, Father," the knight—the daughter?—says.

"Rowena," Lord Ravenclaw says, but she doesn't let him speak.

"I won the tournament," she says, "which according to your terms would give me, and I alone, the right to marry your daughter. As such, I no longer have any obligation to marry any suitor you choose for me."

"Rowena, be reasonable," he says.

"I am," she says, walking away. The crowd disperses soon after.

Festivities over and no wedding in sight, the people diffuse out of the town. The three move on too, wallets heavier and spirits just a little bit lighter.

Godric doesn't expect to see Rowena again. At least, not until the three are in the forest, just outside of the town. They're talking, loudly, not quite expecting anything so close to the town, and they don't notice the trees getting denser and taller.

It's not until they reach the sphinx that they realize something's wrong.

"Hi," Helga says.

The sphinx makes a noise deep in her throat.

"May we pass?" Helga asks.

"Not unless you solve my riddle," the sphinx says. "I'll make it easy—for such a polite group."

A pause.

"I belong to you, but others use me more than you do. What am I?"

Godric doesn't think before he speaks.

"My dick."

Salazar hits him, hard. Helga doubles over with laughter.

"No," the sphinx says, looking very much as though she's trying not to laugh too.

Salazar is about to speak when a voice comes from behind them.

"Your name."

Godric turns around.

It's the bronze knight—Rowena Ravenclaw.

The sphinx looks almost disappointed but lets them pass.

"Thanks," Godric says awkwardly, to Ravenclaw. She ignores him.

They walk together to the edge of the forest.

"Here I'll leave you," Ravenclaw says.

"Aw," Helga says. "Stay for the night."

Godric doesn't expect her to accept but she does.

"You were great during the tournament," Godric says, trying to make conversation.

"I've been trained for years," she says.

"Do you want to—" Godric starts, but never finishes.

"Fight you?" she asks. "Yes."

Godric is certain that Salazar is laughing at him.

Godric and Rowena are very evenly matched. What advantage she has in strategy, he makes up for with years of experience. What advantage he has from strength, she makes up for with some truly incredible footwork.

"Alright, I'd really like to sleep now," Helga says, cutting them off. "Please, all this clanging is driving me insane."

"It isn't over," Ravenclaw says to Godric.

He agrees.

In the morning, Ravenclaw prepares to leave.

"Travel with us," Helga offers.

"Why should I?"

"It'll be fun," Helga says. "Besides, having company is always nice."

Ravenclaw doesn't look convinced but she agrees to stay with them for another day.

Godric drags them along on some adventure—a Blast-ended Skrewt is on the loose and _of course we have to deal with it what do you mean Sal_?

And at the end of the day, Ravenclaw looks at Godric, from across the campfire and asks, "is this what you always do?"

"More or less," Godric says. "Why?"

"That's the question," she says. "Why do you do this?"

"Because it's fun. And because I have a duty to the people."

Because maybe if he saves enough people, he can make up for those that he's killed.

"A duty," Ravenclaw asks, "or a debt?"

Godric doesn't answer.

"You know," she says. "You go out and fight all these things but maybe what you don't realize is that sometimes your greatest enemy is yourself."

"Maybe," Godric says.

"I think I'll stay for another day," Rowena says.

That day quickly turns into a week turns into a month, then a year. And when Helga asks Rowena again: "will you stay with us?" the answer is "yes."

* * *

Godric is nineteen and he never stops hearing his uncle's voice saying _run; remember who your family is_, but when he looks at Salazar, he is reminded that his family is here.

Sometimes he still dreams of blood and death but when he wakes up, Helga is there.

And when he is not enough never enough—he longs to be someone else—Rowena is there to remind him that sometimes it takes the most courage to face yourself.

For the first time in his life, Godric is home.


	2. if the storm ends - I

5 times Salazar leaves and 1 time he stays.

* * *

**i. gold hair and lightning**

June. Midnight. The cool breeze is a welcome respite from the stifling city air.

In front of you, Godric sleeps: his cloak bundled into a makeshift pillow, his back against the wall, his blond hair spread around his head like a halo. He looks peaceful, like the children you see sometimes through windows, sleeping in their beds.

You should go to sleep.

You come to realize, slowly, slowly, that you could stay here forever.

It scares you.

You get up, pace back and forth—back and forth—back and forth.

It scares you, this: not being in control. It scares you: Godric could say, come with me, and you'd drop everything and follow him.

You can't let anyone have so much power over you.

Godric's asleep; he won't wake up for hours. By then you'll be long gone. It's not as though you matter to him, in any way. He stays because—you don't know. You could find out. You could find out so, so easily. Something stops you, something you can't quite formulate into a thought.

You've made your decision long before you manage to justify it to yourself.

You do the only thing you can: you run.

By dawn, you're far away.

It would probably be a good idea to leave London, but somehow you can't bring yourself to. Maybe you shouldn't be so surprised when Godric finds you again. It's a few hours later and the sun sets in front of you but there's Godric, eclipsing it all.

"Why did you come?" you ask.

"I don't know," Godric says, but he flushes red: he is a terrible liar. He doesn't say anything else.

He doesn't ask why you left.

But he doesn't ask you to stay.


	3. if the storm ends - II

**ii. the silver forked sky**

"What will you do," you ask, "after?"

"Go home," he says. "To my uncle. My aunt."

_Back to this life of mine_, he doesn't say.

_Somewhere you can't follow_, you hear instead.

"What about you?" Godric asks.

"The same, I suppose," you say, and maybe there's a note of bitterness in your voice, a twist of your lips—you don't know what gives you away but even Godric sees.

"Is that what you want?" he asks.

A pause.

"What do you want, then?"

And you look at him and you think: do not leave me. But you cannot go with him; his life is not for you.

"I want to get out of here," you say, instead.

"Of London?"

"No. Out of this life."

He agrees, of course. You don't know why you expected any differently. And he makes his arrangements and he talks to his people and he tells you, _I'll have something set up for you soon_ but all you want to hear is, _I can't do that; please come with me._

You never do.

* * *

Lightning. Rain pours down from the skies but you're sheltered, tucked away into a corner—pressed into each other—hidden.

Next to you Godric is warm. His head again on your shoulder is a comforting weight. And you don't need to move closer; you don't need to press yourself against him but you do and you tell yourself that it is to escape the rain.

And almost immediately, you flinch back. You'll be leaving soon.

"Sal?" Godric murmurs, sleepily.

"Yeah?"

"Don't go."

"I'm right here."

"I don't want you to go," he says, awake.

You don't say anything.

"Come with me," Godric says, and it should be everything you've been waiting for and more but it isn't. It isn't enough.

And Godric looks at you with that expression on his face and he meets your eyes and you want, so, so desperately, to know that what he thinks but you can't bring yourself to look.

You turn away.

You open your mouth, as though there's something you want to say—_too many things; there are a hundred languages in the world and none of them are enough_—

"I can't," you say instead.

A pause.

"So this is goodbye, then," Godric says.

"Yes."

You are at a loss for words.

"Goodbye," you say.

_Don't go_, you think.

And before you can regret it, you walk away.


	4. if the storm ends - III

**iii. the planet's last dance**

_Salazar_

You've been on the road for months, now, never stopping for longer than a few days in one place. It's not that you don't like this—seeing things, meeting people—but something inside you longs to stop, longs to have someplace to call _home_.

But Godric drags you from place to place and you think, maybe, maybe, one day, he'll look at you and say to you: _here; this is where we stop; this is where we stay._

You know he never will leave this life; his home is on the road and he's never been observant, not like you are.

Daybreak. You haven't stopped travelling through the night in hopes of reaching a town and an inn but there's been nothing.

"Where are going now?" you ask.

Godric shrugs.

"Onwards, I guess," he says.

You try your very best not to grit your teeth.

_Onwards_. God knows when you'll stop.

Another day. Another town. Another group of faceless people, their features and clothing and mannerisms blending into one another and yet so, so clearly burned into your memory.

Godric talks to a group clustered around the well, laughing loudly and boisterously.

Jealousy—hurt—bubbles up inside you but you push it down, turn away and walk to the edge of town where the forest meets cobblestone streets. But once you're here, you can't stay so close to town. You keep walking, just off the side of the road.

You recite spells in your head as you walk, potions recipes and old texts.

By the time you manage to pull yourself out of your head, the sun is setting and you're far away enough that you don't know your surroundings.

You take a deep breath, only now recognizing the hunger in your stomach.

You sigh. Time to go back.

But before you have time to turn around, a flicker of flame in the distance catches your eye. Travellers, maybe? Your curiosity roused, you cannot turn back.

They're not travellers. They're bandits.

You're turning to head back when—_snap_

Behind you a branch cracks and you've whipped around, wand in one hand, the other reaching for a knife but it's only Godric.

"Bandits," you say, gesturing to the campfire.

He nods, hand creeping towards his sword.

You shake your head.

Godric looks at you, nods. And wordlessly, you head back, towards the town.

The townspeople aren't particularly happy that you've called a meeting—it's the middle of the night and you're strangers at that, too!—but at the word _bandits,_ they're awake.

They make plans—escape routes and hiding places and weapons and people—and all the while, Godric's face grows stonier and stonier.

"You should leave," the leader of the village says. "It'll be dangerous."

_You're not welcome here_, he doesn't say.

You acquiesce (after all, this isn't your village; this isn't your problem) but when you turn around, Godric's hands are clenched and he's unhappy.

"Leave it to them," you say. "They don't want us here."

Godric nods, sharply, and you think (hope) that he understands what you mean, that he'll leave with you. You head in the opposite direction of the bandits. Godric doesn't talk to you that day but that's fine (you tell yourself). It's been a long day; neither of you have slept for a few days now. (he's just tired)

It's only much later, when Godric goes missing in the middle of the night (and you curse, _why didn't you see this coming?_) and he's gone back to the village (of course he has) and half the buildings are on fire and you _can't find Godric_ that you realize: he will never do as you wish, only what he wants. You will _always_ be second place.

The town's empty now, everybody (bandits and villagers alike) having fled.

You finally find Godric. Only—you almost wish you hadn't.

"What are you doing?" you yell.

From inside the burning barn come screams.

Godric runs. Straight into the fucking barn. That's on fire.

You look around and when you see no one there, you pull out your wand, spell on your lips. It doesn't take long for the fire to be put out.

Godric comes out, two kids in his arms, completely drenched.

You glare at him.

You resolve not to talk to him. Not for a few hours, at least.

* * *

_Godric_

When Salazar finally decides to talk to Godric, it's two days later and they're far far away from the town.

"You are," Salazar says, "a complete and utter fool."

"I just might be," Godric says. He knows he will never be like Sal—will never be as quick, never as observant, but he's long accepted that.

"A burning building," Salazar says, "and you run into it. _Completely forgetting_ that you are a wizard with a wand."

A pause. There's something else he doesn't say. You can't figure out what.

"Do you even," Salazar says, gesturing wildly, "use your brain?"

Godric opens his mouth, closes it. Then opens it again.

"I just thought," Godric says, "that I needed to rescue them."

Salazar _looks_ at him.

"You just have to, don't you," Salazar says, flatly.

Godric doesn't say anything.

"How long will it take you," Salazar says, "to accept that you cannot save everyone?"

"Well I did," Godric says, stubbornly.

He will not accept that Salazar has a point; he knows it is childish—dangerous—to believe in his own invincibility.

Salazar shakes his head.

"Godric," he says, "never do that again."

'That' does not refer to running into a burning building; 'that' refers to something else and Godric can't fucking figure it out.

"I can't promise you that," he says, instead.

"I'll make you."

"You couldn't."

"I'll come up with something," Salazar snaps. "Tie you to a tree or stun you."

"Salazar," Godric says, "you couldn't."

"This is stupid," Salazar says. "I can't watch you tear yourself apart over your past actions; I can't watch you near kill yourself trying to atone for them. You can't. The dead are dead and nothing will bring them back. Accept this."

Godric hears it now: they are dead but I am not.

"I can't," Godric says. "I can't."

He knows full well what he's saying, for once: I cannot go with you.

Salazar looks at him, silver eyes bright.

"And neither can I," he says, with all the weight of an executioner's axe.

In all Godric's years, he had never thought they would be parted like this.

"So this is goodbye, then," Godric says.

"Yes," Salazar says. "This is goodbye."

Then Salazar turns and leaves, walking away from Godric.

_Wait_, Godric wants to say. _Don't leave. I'll change._

But that would be a lie.


	5. if the storm ends - IV

**iv. a distant echo**

_Godric_

"Professor!"

The head boy—William—runs into your office. (Is it already morning? You hadn't noticed.)

"Professor Gryffindor!" he says, panting. "Professor Slytherin's gone."

Your cup slips. Falls onto the floor. Spills.

You nod, numbly.

William leaves. The door closes. _Thud_.

You sit.

You wish—

* * *

_Earlier_

"All things considered," Rowena says, "I would call this a success."

Helga snorts.

"We had to invent a whole new branch of magic," she says. "The outer defences are a patchwork of spells and hastily covered holes. We built an _entire castle_ without knowing how. And somehow that worked. Of course this is a success."

You look up to your greatest achievement, silhouetted against the dusk: towers stretching towards the sky, spiraling staircases and hidden rooms and thick sturdy walls of stone circled with layer upon layer of protective wards, so dense that if you tried to unravel them, you just might pull out a wrong piece and break it all.

Alright, so that might have been an issue and not a perk but it's not as though anyone's ever accomplished such a feat before: hiding not a person, not a cart, but an entire castle and its surroundings. You don't know how you've managed to do it but you're definitely impressed.

Never mind how dangerous the surrounding forest turned out. It isn't as though any of you knew that this much magic would attract so many magical creatures.

"Now for a toast," Rowena says. A pause. "Before I met you, the three of you, a magical school was nothing but a passing thought. A place where witches and wizards could learn magic in safety, where they didn't need to fear persecution or death, it was nothing but a wish—a hope—a dream. Now it's become reality. I couldn't have done it without you. All of you."

"Here's to us," you say, raising your goblet.

"To us," Rowena says, sipping at her vodka.

"To us," Helga says, already on her seventh cup.

"To us," Salazar says, drinking his water.

He smiles at you, softly, softly, haloed by the setting sun. You smile at him, move closer until your arms are wrapped around his waist and his head leans on your shoulder.

Rowena rolls her eyes at you but she moves closer to Helga, holding her in her lap.

"At least now," you say, "our students will have a roof over their heads."

"That isn't a badly constructed tent, you mean," Salazar says with a glint in his eyes.

"Shut up," you mumble, but your face heats up (it's the alcohol, you tell yourself) and you're smiling.

"At least now," Helga echoes, grinning mischievously, "you two will finally have a door to lock."

You nearly choke on your drink.

"Helga!" you exclaim, and throw the nearest thing you can find (a stick) at her.

Rowena tsks at you.

"How could you do such a thing," she says, mockingly.

Next to you, Salazar has stopped trying to hold back his laughter.

You throw a stick at Rowena too.

* * *

_Later_

Salazar's using you as a pillow again.

His hair spreads across your bed and his head's cushioned against your chest and his face is unguarded, nose scrunched up. You don't think you've ever seen him look this adorable before—this young.

You should get up but you don't. There are no morning classes, anyways, and the sun's shining through the windows and you're warm and you're _happy_.

You drift back off to sleep.

When you wake up again, it's to the sense that something is wrong. Salazar is still sleeping, though it's past noon. It's only when your hair drapes over your shoulder that you see—it's blue. Striking navy blue.

You stand there, in front of the mirror for half an hour muttering counterspells and swearing at Rowena before Salazar stumbles out of bed.

"Morning," he mumbles, eyes still not open yet.

You yank a hat over your head, shoving all your hair under it.

"Morning," you say.

Salazar shuffles towards you, awkwardly, and you move to hug him. He doesn't protest.

The door slams open, nearly falling off its hinges.

"You're awake," Rowena says, eyes flicking to your hat. "Good."

Salazar says something but it's muffled by the fact that his face is buried in the crook of your neck.

"We're leaving in ten minutes," Rowena says.

"I thought we said two hours past noon," you say.

"We did," Rowena says.

You manage to somehow extricate yourself from Salazar's grasp—though you don't particularly want to—and get dressed. It's not until you're on the road that you realize: your hair is still blue.

"Rowena," you say, "turn my hair back."

"No," she says, deadpan.

You sigh and pull your hat lower.

Salazar casts a curious look at you but doesn't mention anything.

When you get to the town—several apparition jumps and some walking later—there's a commotion on the edge of town. A group of people are clustered around a building, loudly arguing, and further into town, there's louder shouting.

"Excuse me," you say, approaching the villagers. "Good afternoon."

They turn, as one, to glare at you.

"What do you want?" one asks.

"We're travellers," Salazar says, coming up to stand next to you. "We're hoping to buy some supplies for our travels. Would you know—"

"There'll be nothing left," the one on the right says. "_They_ took everything."

"Bought," the one next to him says, "and they're _missionaries_ spreading the gospel, not an odd riff raff of hooligans for you to talk about like that."

"They're _murderers_," the first spits.

You've just about had enough.

"Can you point us to the nearest merchant, then?" you say.

The second grudgingly gives you directions. You walk away first, leaving the villagers to go back to their arguing, without waiting for the others to follow.

Salazar grabs your arm.

"What they were saying could be important."

"Religious zealots," you say. "Probably trying to convert the town."

"Good to see you using your brain for once," Rowena says. "Unfortunately, you're wrong."

Rowena points to a black robed man—you almost mistake him for a monk, at first, but then you see that he's—with his sword, plain hilt hanging at the side of his hip. And around his neck hangs a pendant: dark wood and gold filigree.

Witchhunter.

"If they're here," Salazar says. "If they're here, at least we know we're in the right place."

There's no pyre burning just yet but time's running short and you can't breathe from the urgency.

You forget all about your still blue hair until Rowena mutters something under her breath and tells you that you can take off your hat now. You look at Salazar for confirmation (the last thing you want is the witchhunter catching one of you) and he nods.

The lightheartedness of the morning has dissipated.

Helga's jaw is clenched.

"Are you alright?" you ask, leaning towards her.

She nods, stiffly.

You squeeze her shoulder in a way you hope is reassuring. She gives you a small smile.

You split up, the four of you, each taking a piece of the town. It's not all that large but you can't just go and ask: _are you, by any chance, a witch?_

It's sheer luck that leads you to the house before the witchhunters come.

You manage to save the boy (John; he's young, not quite fifteen). You don't save his sisters.

Their screams echo in your ears long after you've returned to Hogwarts.

* * *

And then. And then.

You're buried in a pile of blankets, the fire in your hearth burning steadily, Salazar wrapped around you like moss on a tree.

You're content to stay here for a while, Salazar sleeping so peacefully. But you just can't have peace.

The head boy—Edward—knocks on your door, hard enough that you think he must have a battering ram.

You unlock the door with a wave of your wand.

Edward bursts in, yells, "we're under attack!"

You jump out of bed. Salazar is up in an instant, dressing himself with a few incantations.

"Where," he demands.

You reach for your sword.

* * *

Your sword in your right hand, your wand in your left: it's not an unfamiliar feeling—you've been on dozens of battlefields—but you look around you and this is _wrong_.

(how did it come to this; where did you go wrong; this was meant to be safe this was meant to be somewhere you could escape them somewhere the children wouldn't have to live in fear)

You're standing on top of the castle wall, Salazar to your right, Rowena to your left, Helga on Rowena's other side, and in front of you there's a horde of people.

(maybe a hundred, poorly armed with pitchforks and shovels and torches—farming equipment—only at the very front there's a witchhunter holding the pendant between his fingers and there won't be just one of them; there'll be more coming soon unless—you could still confuse newcomers but you can't get the ones that are already here out, not when they're right in front of your walls)

"We can take them," you say, confidently. No need to share your worries just yet.

"I won't have the children seeing bloodshed," Helga says.

The children are in the Great Hall, barricaded in—safe—and you try to convince yourself that everything will be alright.

The witchhunter has gotten tired of waiting.

He starts, as witchhunters generally do: listing your supposed sins, launching into a tirade about redemption, and finally, ending with your sentence—death.

Only—at the front of the crowd is a young boy, not quite fifteen. You recognize him. John. The new arrival. His sisters burned. And so did, you are certain, his parents. And he's standing right next to the witchhunter and you just _know_ that he's the one that led them past the wards, led them straight to the school.

You hold onto the hope that maybe, _maybe_, they'll leave peacefully but it's foolish.

They bring out a battering ram (where did they hide that?) and swing. The spell leaves your wand before you're even aware that you've thought it. The battering ram bursts into flames, and the people holding it leap back.

A volley of arrows. It's not difficult to turn them into something harmless.

You won't sit around and wait for a siege, though, so you jump, straight into the fray. It's not hard to drive the farmers away, not with Rowena and Salazar covering you and Helga from on top of the castle walls.

But just as you think: it's over, finally, and without much of a fuss, a new group of knights charge forward, yelling. They're witchhunters, proper ones: armed with swords and axes and shields and armor. There's no way you'll be able to fight all of them.

You turn to Helga, ready to return to the walls when the front door creaks open. Edward walks out, wand in his hand, and he yells, "I'm going to fight."

You don't have the opportunity to yell at him to go back—to shut the fucking door—before an arrow sprouts from his throat, and he drops to the ground: dead.

And after that it's a flood that you can't control.

You don't remember much, just snippets.

Dead bodies strewn before you—your hands slick with blood—flashes of light.

And Salazar's beside you, spells firing.

There's a child on the ground, unmoving. She's. One of yours.

A hoarse yell. The clash of metal against metal. Someone's screaming. Footsteps. Another dead body. A flash of green. Fire. Lightning. Red.

And you're collapsed against the ground, blood seeping out of a cut on your left side, an arrow sticking out of your left thigh, and your hair damp with sweat and sticky. Salazar sits next to you, head against your shoulder, unmoving and you're scared (enough to grab him, shake him to make sure he's _alive_).

"Stop that," he snaps, but it's half hearted. "I'm fine."

There's a kid in front of you now (one of yours).

No. Not one of yours. Not anymore.

You stagger to your feet.

"John," you say, weary. "What are you doing?"

"This is wrong," he says, panicked, breathing hard, eyes glassy. "I shouldn't—I'm—"

"Is this what you wanted?" you ask. "All this death?"

"Yes!" he says, but he doesn't look at you. "You're all going to hell. We're just—"

You stun him, before Salazar can do something worse, and you bring him back into the school. You can feel the weight of Salazar's gaze on your back. You can feel his judgement.

Inside the school, it's a mess. The younger children are crying, the older ones injured or dead or crying, staring blankly in front of them. You comfort them as best as you can. It wasn't supposed to come to this. They were supposed to grow up without needing to fear for their lives. They weren't supposed to die for your school.

Distantly, you're aware that Salazar is handing out potions, Helga is whispering words of comfort, and Rowena is muttering charms under her breath. You're aware of the puddles of red on the floor and white bandages and multicoloured spells.

But on a more visceral level, you're not here. You're blanking out, somewhere between _here_ and _not_. Waves of sound wash over you, a dull buzzing in your ears. The torchlight is too bright.

Salazar walks over to you, takes your hands in his.

He kisses you and it's a slow drift back to reality. But there's still something wrong and you can't pin it down.

"Better?" he asks.

"Yes."

* * *

It's a long few days until everything resumes a normal routine—at least, as normal as things can be now. John is locked up in an empty classroom. He hasn't talked to anyone since the battle.

"We need to decide what to do with him," Rowena says.

The four of you are seated in a circle, slumped against chairs.

"We ought to kill him," Salazar says.

"No," you say, vehemently.

"What would you do, then?"

"Drop him off somewhere far away," you say.

"What, so he can come back, try again?"

"He won't."

"You know he will."

"I won't kill an innocent _child_."

"He's hardly _innocent_," Salazar says. "How many people died, Godric? How _many_?"

Seventeen of your students. But you don't say anything.

"After what he's done?" Salazar says. "Death would be a mercy."

"You're talking about executing him," you say. "Haven't you had enough death?"

Salazar scoffs.

"I won't let him go free," he says. "Not when that's a risk to the school."

"I won't let you execute him."

"You would let him go," Salazar says, flatly, "even when he's killed so many people? He could lead them back, you know. Find more witchhunters. Another army."

"That's a risk with every student," you say. "We know this. And we chose to keep recruiting from the villages even with that risk."

"And you're saying that _this_ is an acceptable outcome?"

"No, of course not!"

"You're right," Salazar says. "This is a risk that comes with recruiting students with non magical backgrounds. And this time, they've proven that we can't trust them. That they're a danger to us. To our school. To the children that we've been charged with protecting."

"What are you saying?"

"Maybe it's time we stop."

"What?"

"Stop letting them in."

You laugh, incredulously.

"Salazar, you—"

"Listen to me, Godric," Salazar says. "Seventeen children died. We can't have a repeat of this, not ever. And if not allowing muggleborn students in is what it takes, then so be it!"

"You can't be serious," you say. "You'd rather leave them in the outside world with their uncontrolled magic and witchhunters everywhere? You'd rather have them feeling like outcasts for the rest of their lives, hunted and feared? How many children would the witchhunters kill?"

"They aren't our responsibility," Salazar says, evenly. "The children at our school are."

"I can't believe you," you say, incredulous.

"Nor can I," he says.

Helga and Rowena remain silent. You won't resolve this, not easily.

You don't talk to Salazar for a week.

You smuggle John out of the school and you tell him: _never come back_.

He doesn't look at you.

* * *

The fights continue.

You're not sure you can take much more of this.

They escalate, too, until every time you're in the same room as Salazar, you'll eventually end up in a screaming match.

Two months in, someone throws a hex and it devolves from there.

It gets worse. Helga agrees with you and normally you'd be ecstatic to have someone agree with you, only—this time, you're not. Rowena, too, takes your side.

The fights continue.

They don't stop.

Neither one of you will budge.

* * *

_Now_

Helga visits you. Rowena visits.

"We're stopping class for a few days," Rowena says. "At least, until we figure things out."

You restart classes eventually. You don't appoint a replacement.

He'll be back.

You can't imagine a world where he doesn't.


	6. if the storm ends - V

**v. rattle cage after cage**

_Godric_

It takes him a year and a month to return. He's not quite the same afterwards. But you look at him, with his dark hair and razor sharp smile and flint grey eyes, and all you feel is relief.

The four of you design better defenses. The area around the school repels all muggles. But it doesn't stop there. You use what's around you: the forest. You enchant parts of the building. You build secret passages.

You won't let more children die in your school. Not now. Not _ever_.

That's what drives you. There's a drive in Salazar too, a brittle need for something but you can't tell what that something is. You can't find the words to ask.

Years pass.

Your early students (the ones who still remember when your school was just a collection of hastily built houses in a clearing in a forest) leave to find their fortunes elsewhere.

Word spreads of a safe haven—somewhere children can learn to use magic without fearing persecution—and scattered households send a child, two. The old families come and they send their children to you.

Your school gains more students every year. They come from all around now, from Ireland and Wales and—rarer but still, one or two each year—Normandy. There's too many to teach with just the four of you, so you hire a new teacher. And then another.

Your first students send their children back. They settle a while away from the castle, a group of buildings clustering around one road, then two.

Rowena and Helga have children. They're adorable little things, chubby cheeks and soft smiles. They grow up.

There's a chasm between you and Salazar and whatever you do you can't quite seem to bridge it. You're not entirely sure that you want to.

And Salazar? Well, you're not exactly sure what he wants. Once you thought you did but maybe you've never truly known him.

So when he slips away in the middle of the night, when Rowena and Helga's children are grown and the school is an established part of the magical community and the town by its edges has a name, you don't know if you should follow.

You tell yourself: _he just needs some space_.

You tell yourself: _he will be back_.

But Salazar doesn't come back.

A year passes and he doesn't return.

_We need a way to sort our students_, Rowena says, _after we're all gone_.

What, you think Salazar isn't coming back? you ask, but she doesn't answer you.

So you take your hat and you enchant it. And it sings and it works and the next year, when school begins, there are new students wearing green and silver and it's almost like Salazar himself is back.

But he isn't.

You think you see him on the edges of the school, hovering by the boundaries of the forest, but then you blink and he's gone.

You go looking for him. You tell yourself that there aren't that many places he could be. What you told yourself would be a one time trip turns into a hobby (obsession) turns into a semi annual tradition. You tell yourself, every time: _this time I will bring him home; this time I will not fail_.

You are wrong.

Rowena's daughter vanishes. Rowena fades by the day.

_I would like_, she says, _for the four of us to be together again_.

So you go looking for Salazar.

You find him this time. It's like he's stopped hiding.

Or maybe. That he can't hide anymore.

He's holed up in a cabin in the woods, tucked away in the shadow of a hill.

Salazar lies on his bed, sleeping, when you come in. He's ill, then, or injured—he wouldn't let down his defenses like this if he could. You don't see any signs of injury, and his breathing is steady and his pulse is strong so you leave him to sleep, for a while, as you walk through his house to try to find out what he's been up to these past years.

(and maybe, years later, when it's night and you're alone, you'll admit to yourself that you don't wake him because you don't know what to say)

There are shelves and shelves of vials, each holding a potion of some sort: green and orange and purple, glowing and glittering and murky dark. But they haven't been touched for a while now, a thin layer of dust coating the glass. There are books, too, written in Salazar's own handwriting, spidery and cramped. You can't decipher anything he writes—it's in his own code.

"Godric?" Salazar calls, from the other room, and it's with a voice so soft that you barely hear him, at first.

"Salazar," you say, once you've walked in. "I—"

Awake, he looks terrible. He's pale and painfully thin and—you've never seen him like this before.

"What happened?" you ask.

He shrugs, a jerky motion.

You sit next to him, and you wrap an arm around bony shoulders.

"It's nothing," he says. A pause. "Why are you here?"

You make a choked noise. He doesn't know. Of course he doesn't know why would he?

In strangled sentences, you tell him everything.

"I don't think I'll make it back," he says.

_I don't think Rowena will be the first to die_, he doesn't say.

There's too many things you want to say. You can't seem to force the words out of your throat. But that's alright; words have never been your strong suit anyways.

You kiss him instead. Tenderly, not as though you're afraid he'll break, but because you're scared you'll give him everything and he'll throw you out. He kisses you back, but you have to break apart soon: Salazar is already out of breath.

"I'm sorry," he says. "For—for everything. Forgive me."

"I forgive you," you say, without hesitation. "I will always forgive you. No matter what you do."

He smiles at you, softly.

"I was experimenting," he says, out of the blue. "All sorts of things. Dangerous things."

A pause.

"I was experimenting on myself."

You're not quite sure what to say to that. Instead, you nod slowly.

"I'm sorry," he says.

That startles a laugh out of you.

"I know," Salazar continues, "it's been a while. I'm sorry. Forgive me."

"I will," you say. "I do."

You wish you could find the words to say what you want to. But you've never been good with words and for all you want to, you can't string your words together.

(they rattle in your head with a cacophony of noise)

Instead, you just hold him.

"I should ask for your forgiveness," you say, after a while. "For not being with you."

"It was my choice."

"Would you choose differently?" you ask. "If you could go back."

Salazar's face tightens.

"We don't get another chance," he says. "Why imagine?"

A pause.

"Please don't go," you blurt out.

He takes your hand.

"I don't think I have a choice," he says.

You want to weep.

"Will you stay?" Salazar asks you instead.

"Of course."

And you stay with him, until the end.


	7. if the storm ends - VI

**vi. if the storm ends**

_Salazar_

You don't expect to wake up. Sure you've theorized (like hundreds before you), spent a few sleepless nights pondering, but you've never really thought that you'd be here.

For a moment there's nothing but a vast expanse of light—it would blind you but it doesn't and some corner of your mind registers that this isn't right but the greater part of your consciousness focuses on the fact that you're here. You're alive.

(or are you?)

The light fades, slowly, slowly, growing ever dimmer. Panic grips you—you remember closing your eyes; you remember awareness fading away. You remember—

Godric.

You turn, looking for him but it's too dark now. Even if he is here, you won't be able to see him.

Pitch black. And then: colours bleed back, vivid and familiar and—

You're in Hogwarts. The familiar stone walls frame empty halls, sunlight filtering in through blurry glass. In the distance, a bell tolls: one—two—three. You listen, waiting for the sound of children yelling and feet stomping but there's nothing, only silence.

You walk. Everything is the way you left it: a crooked painting—a chipped vase—scuffed stones and oaken doors—a doorway swings open as you approach. Even your notes (from how long ago?) are as you left it.

You stop.

The weight of the years you ran from rushes back and for a moment you can't _breathe_. You stand, choking on the dusty air and the ghosts you left behind.

How ironic. It is you who is dead.

You wander the empty halls, aimless. Time passes. You have no way to tell the turn of the days. The sunlight does not waver, does not fade: it remains a fall afternoon, unchanging.

And there, alone, you think you begin to understand. You've never really thought that there would be an After. But you're here now. You're here to stay.

In the distance, a bell tolls: one, two.

For a moment, it doesn't register in your mind, that something has changed. Then you hear it: footsteps.

Your breath hitches in your chest. You've been alone for so long.

You return to where you first appeared but there's nothing there, not even an imprint to mark a presence here. It's only then that you recognize where you are. You're not sure why it took you so long to see.

It's just outside of your room. The one place in the castle that is irrevocably yours. So that means—

You just need to know who it is.

(you pray you are not wrong; you pray you are wrong—you do not want Godric or Rowena or Helga to be dead; you want them to be here so you can say—so you can—)

You break into a sprint, shucking lethargy like an old cloak.

Not the kitchens (Helga); not the astronomy tower (Godric)—

Rowena finds you first.

"Hello Salazar," she says, quietly, behind you.

You whip around.

"Rowena," you breathe. "I—"

A pause.

"How did you die?" you ask.

"Godric didn't tell you?"

You shake your head.

"He didn't get a chance to."

She sighs.

"You've missed a lot," she says. A pause. "I wish you were there."

"Will you tell me?" you ask.

She leads you to the Room she and Helga created, and she tells you of her daughter and her diadem, of the students and the years you spent alone.

You lapse into a companionable silence, afterwards.

"Why are we here?" you ask, later. She's always thought about death more than you have.

"Waiting," she says.

For Helga. For Godric.

So you wait.

* * *

In the distance, a bell tolls: one.

You leap to your feet.

Helga or Godric.

You share a glance with Rowena. She races for Helga's kitchens; you run for Godric's tower with his stupid sculpture and twisting staircase. There's no one there, not even after you push past an eerily silent sculpture into the office proper. You must admit, you didn't expect Godric to be the last one alive.

(though something in you crumples at the thought of Godric, alone)

When you return to the room, Helga is already there, locked into an embrace with Rowena. You excuse yourself (without words, in your own head) and go exploring, if only to distract yourself from missing Godric.

Helga comes looking for you, later.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Of course," you say. "I should be asking you that question. I mean you just died."

She laughs.

"It was my time," she says. "I've made my peace with death."

"You must not have wanted to be here."

She shrugs.

"I'm with you," she says, but you don't think that she's happy with what you have.

"That's what is important," you say, but your heart isn't into it. You miss Godric.

* * *

This time there is no bell.

You round a corner, pacing, lost in your thoughts.

"Salazar." Your name, quietly.

Your head snaps up: you see him—Godric.

All your words dry up inside your head, and you open your mouth, uselessly, trying to say something that just won't come out.

"Godric," you say, instead.

He crosses the distance between you in a few steps (you stand frozen) and wraps you into a hug. You hold onto him, as though he'll disappear just when you need him.

"Don't go," he chokes out. "Salazar, don't leave me again."

"I won't," you say. "I swear I won't."

You're crying. Both of you are. And you stand there, weeping, until Rowena comes looking for you and freezes, standing very still. Helga joins her, not much later.

And the four of you are together again, at last, but you only care about one thing: Godric, next to you.

* * *

_What if the storm ends_

_And I don't see you_

_As you are now_

_Ever again._


End file.
